This doesn’t help.
He’s laying his violin in its case, wrapping it in a white cloth as carefully as if he were swaddling a baby.
“Package delivered,” Ewan says breezily. “Um, I’d better get back, eh? There’s kids out there still want their T-shirts signed. We’re on fire, man!”
He nods at me and dashes back out again. Callum closes the violin case and snaps the clasps shut, making more of a production of it than he needs to.
I understand why. If I had anything to do with my hands, I’d be concentrating on it just as hard.
“Hey, Scarlett,” he says eventually, finally meeting my gaze.
“Hey,” I say back, shifting from one foot to the other, wishing in vain that I were wearing something a little smarter than jeans and a hoodie. “You were really good. All of you.”
“Yeah?” He reaches up and rubs one hand over his short hair, looking sheepish. “It went okay, I thought.”
“You should sing more,” I offer. “We were all saying it.”
“Oh, man.” Callum looks really embarrassed. “I feel such an eejit when I sing. But it seemed to go over okay.”
Callum doesn’t have the ideal personality for the front man of a band: he’s not someone who loves to be in the spotlight. His twin brother, Dan, was the one with all the charming, attention-seeking genes. Dan would have done a much better job than Callum of talking to the audience between songs, all that banter and joking that a good front man can do. Callum just mumbled the names of the songs before each one, and then raised his violin bow gratefully, like someone who would much rather be playing than talking.
So it had been quite unexpected when, called back for an encore, Callum had bashfully announced that they would be doing a traditional song called “The Blooming Bright Star of Belle Isle,” cleared his throat, and started to sing, in a light, melodic tenor:
“One evening for pleasure I rambled
To view the fair fields all alone
Down by the banks of Loch Erin,
Where beauty and pleasure were known.”
It was a sweet, romantic song; Callum did a surprisingly good job of it, with Ewan harmonizing very well. And naturally, it drove the girls in the audience wild.
“I had to psych myself up to do it,” Callum admits now. “Ewan said he’d start singing and if I didn’t join in, he’d look like an even bigger eejit, because he doesn’t sing the tune. So I had to. Man.” He grins. “I’m really glad it’s over.”
“It won’t be so hard the second time,” I say.
“That’s what Ewan said! He was slapping me on the back afterwards and saying I’d popped my cherry.” Callum blushes. “Sorry,” he mutters.
I wave my hand in what’s supposed to be a sophisticated, knowing gesture, but I’m nervous that it comes out more like I’m a loony trying to flap away nonexistent flies.
“Did you want to—”
“I thought I’d just—”
We both start to speak at the same time, break off, and manage to laugh about it, which dissolves the tension a little.
“I thought I’d just see if we could say hi quietly,” Callum starts again. “Because it’s, you know, a bit crazy out there. We didn’t really expect this. And I saw some of the girls Dan used to hang out with. Plum. And Nadia.” He grimaces. “I know what they’re like.”
Actually, you don’t, I think. Boys never know how girls like that can behave. Because they keep the really bad stuff for when the boys aren’t around.
“Yeah,” I agree. “They’re nightmares.”
“Like Lucy,” Callum says, naming his ex-girlfriend. “I didn’t realize what she was all about till later. You know.”
I nod grimly. I do know, all too well.
“It’s nice to see you, Scarlett,” he goes on. “I— When you visited Castle Airlie, things were so messed up, you know? It’s nice to see you somewhere that isn’t, um, there.”
He grins again, and it’s like a shaft of sunlight hitting a stained-glass window; it lights up the room. I forgot how handsome Callum is when he smiles. Probably because I’ve barely seen him do it.
“That was really clumsy,” he says. “But you know what I mean.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” I say, truly meaning it.
And we stand there for a moment, just smiling at each other. It’s the first time Callum McAndrew and I have ever been comfortable in each other’s presence, I realize. Even when we kissed, it was painful, poignant, because we knew very well it was the first and last kiss there would ever be: a kiss goodbye.
But now there’s an ease between us. We don’t even need to say anything; it’s as if the past is fading and we can start again.
I wasn’t expecting this. And I like it a lot.
“Callum, darling! Why are you hiding back here? You should be out in the bar with your fans!”
Plum comes tripping into the greenroom, arms outstretched. She’s trailing a cloud of perfume, Valentino Rock ’n Rose: she must have just sprayed more on. It’s her favorite at the moment and I don’t think it suits her at all—Plum is neither sweet nor rosy.
She’s also trailing her sidekicks, Susan and Lizzie. Until Plum came to Wakefield Hall, Susan was a diamond in the rough, a tall, slender blonde with beautiful features who looked washed out by her pale eyelashes and eyebrows, and slobby in oversized sweaters and loose jeans; now that Plum has made her over, Susan looks like an off-duty supermodel. Legs up to her armpits, hair down to her tiny waist, mascara and eyebrow pencil giving her stunning features definition—you’d hate her if she weren’t so sweet.
While Lizzie, bless her heart, is a fluffy golden retriever of a girl desperately trying to prove she has a place in the smart set by flaunting the latest designer bag. Taylor and I are quite fond of Lizzie, all things considered, but she’s so keen to please that she’ll do whatever the last strong-minded person she bumps into tells her to do. Basically, she’s a pinball that anyone can flip.
Susan and Lizzie stand back, knowing their places, as Plum sashays forward, purring:
“You were fabulous!” She kisses Callum theatrically on both cheeks. “Especially when you sang! We all got goose bumps!” She pulls back slightly, indicating Susan and Lizzie. “Didn’t we?” she prompts, and they bob their heads in response like nodding dog mobiles hung from a rearview mirror.
“Yeah, um, thanks,” Callum says, looking hunted. “I should really be getting out there. Like you said.”
“Of course! Let’s go back!” Plum takes his arm and swings round to face the door.
Which means that she sees me for the first time.
“Scarlett?” she exclaims, looking quickly from me to Callum. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re just catching up,” Callum says quickly.
“I didn’t even know you two knew each other!” Plum says, dragging Callum out of the greenroom. “You’re such a dark horse with the boys, Scarlett!”
I don’t know how she manages it, without a word being said, but by the time she’s escorted Callum back over the stage and through the auditorium, she’s silently ordered Lizzie to nip ahead of her and push open the doors, holding one ajar so that Plum and Callum can make an entrance into the foyer. Heads duly turn; eyes light up on spotting Callum. Plum’s gripping his arm for dear life, as if he’s a human trophy she’s just won. Taylor comes over, grimacing at me.
“I saw her heading back there,” she says. “But I’d’ve needed a stun gun to stop her.”
“We should probably get one,” I say. “In case of emergency.”
“Callum! Hi!” Nadia calls loudly, to summon as much attention as possible her way. Then she steps over to him like a runway model, narrow hips swinging, legs stepping high, hair tumbling around her shoulders. “You were fabulous!”
“Yes, thanks, I’ve done that bit already, Nadia,” Plum snaps.
“Hey, Plum,” Sophia von und zu Something says blithely, following Nadia over. Sophia, bless her, is an Austrian count
ess. Very titled, very rich, and very thick. I honestly don’t think she would have been accepted at St. Tabby’s if it hadn’t been for the first two factors; St. Tabby’s is a much snobbier school than Wakefield Hall. My grandmother, who’s the headmistress of Wakefield, would never have dreamed of taking Sophia, who has the mental capacity of a newt that just got hit by a car.
While Plum’s distracted by Nadia, Callum manages to slip his arm free and swivel toward me.
“Callum, you remember Taylor,” I say, and he nods.
“Hey,” he says. “Nice to see you.”
“You too,” she says, smiling at him, and I realize instantly that she means it; she’s not just being polite.
Phew, I think, Taylor likes Callum. For some reason, that seems to be important to me.
“Goodness, Scarlett, was one McAndrew brother not enough for you?” Plum says nastily, swinging round on us. “What are you trying to do—collect the set?”
My mouth drops open at the sheer unpleasantness of this, and Callum must be similarly stunned, because he doesn’t say anything either. It’s Taylor who snaps at her:
“Hey! You’re out of line!”
“Oh, Callum, have you met Scarlett’s bodyguard yet?” Plum asks, narrowing her eyes at Taylor. “Careful—you don’t want to get on her wrong side! She’s very butch.”
I’m not putting up with this kind of thing from Plum.
“Oh, you’re just jealous because Taylor’s so photogenic,” I retort. “You wish you looked as good in photos as Taylor does.”
This hits squarely home; I actually see Plum swallow. She’s got very used to taunting Taylor, secure in the confidence that she knows a juicy secret of Taylor’s that means her victim won’t answer back. But Plum’s forgotten that I now have something as equally juicy on her as she does on my best friend.
“Right,” she manages feebly, tossing her hair in front of her eyes so that she doesn’t have to look at me. “As if.”
And Nadia’s glossy blue-black head turns from me to Plum, her dark eyes alert. Nadia’s shown herself to be a smart operator; she’s managed to use me and Taylor in the past to get something she wanted, playing us as smoothly as Callum played his violin. Now she’s picked up on an odd vibe between me and Plum, and, knowing Nadia, she won’t rest till she finds out what’s at the bottom of it.
Which is by no means what I want to happen.
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken Plum on in front of Nadia, I reflect. The trouble is, I’m not brilliant at these girl-on-girl politics, the guerrilla warfare games, that Plum, Nadia, and their set are so expert at playing. I made a basic mistake: I didn’t think before I opened my mouth.
And then I relax. After all, meeting here is just a freaky coincidence. It’s not like our path and that of the St. Tabby’s girls are going to cross at all in the future. God knows what they’re doing here, anyway; Scottish folk music is much too earnest for St. Tabby’s supersmart image.
“Well, hello!” says a voice with an odd accent, and when we swing round to see who it is, I find myself staring right at the skinny chest of the lead violinist from Hürti Slärtbärten. He’s changed—mercifully—out of his bright red silk blouse, but the faded grayish-white T-shirt with the Rolling Stones logo that he’s wearing instead isn’t much of an improvement. Especially as I think we can all tell, by his cloud of body odor, that he got pretty sweaty during his gig.
Thank God, he’s not talking to me; he’s looking straight at Nadia.
“You are a very pretty girl!” he says.
As if this is going to be news to Nadia.
“I would like to ask you to come for a drink with me,” he continues as all of us stare at him in absolute incredulity.
“Jeez, he has balls of steel,” Taylor whispers to me.
It’s true. This geeky boy with gelled-up hair and a flaming acne breakout, smelling strongly of sweat, is hitting on one of the reigning princesses of London society. Not only that, but he’s acting as if her answer is a foregone conclusion.
“You perhaps saw me onstage,” he continues, nodding in a patronizing way to the rest of us. “I am very famous in Norway. So!” He smiles at Nadia. “We go for a drink?”
Nadia is looking from side to side, her eyes flickering nervously, and I know exactly why: I know how these girls’ minds work by now, even if I’m not an expert at their games. She thinks some frenemy of hers is setting her up—maybe getting ready to take a photo of Nadia and Mr. Hürti Slärtbärten that they can then post on Facebook, captioned Nadia and her new sick crush!
“Don’t worry!” he says jovially to the rest of us. “I bring her back safe and whole!”
Lizzie, unfortunately, loses it at this point and starts to giggle, tossing her carefully straightened and highlighted hair from side to side. It would be Lizzie, of course.
“Right!” Ms. Burton-Race, St. Tabby’s history teacher, bustles up to us. “St. Tabby’s girls, with me! Time to go home! We have a busy day tomorrow!”
I don’t think Nadia’s ever been that grateful to see a teacher in her life.
three
“GOOD FRIENDS TELL YOU THE TRUTH”
“That was worth the price of admission,” Taylor comments as we curl up at the back of the coach.
“I’ve never seen Nadia lost for words before,” I agree appreciatively.
“The thing is, in the normal world, a boy who looks like that would never dare to come near her,” Taylor says thoughtfully. “I mean, she must be used to princes and kids with million-pound trust funds hitting on her.”
“Sophia von und zu Whatsit’s older brother’s a Graf,” I offer. “That’s a count or an earl or something in Austria. And apparently he’s always after Nadia.”
“There you go. So when old Stinkyspots came up to her, she literally couldn’t believe it,” Taylor says happily.
“No one could. It’d be like Aunt Gwen thinking she had a chance with Johnny Depp,” I say, much to Taylor’s amusement.
Then I dart a glance up the aisle. Aunt Gwen’s sitting right at the front of the coach: there’s no chance she could have heard me. Still, better to be safe than sorry where Aunt Gwen’s concerned.
“Scarlett?” Taylor says more seriously.
“Yeah?” I put my feet up, wedging them on the seat back in front, getting comfortable.
“That photo of Plum you have,” Taylor continues, lowering her voice now. Most of the girls, still excited from the concert, are chattering away, and the coach is a thirty-seater, much bigger than we need, so we’re all spread out; still, she’s talking about something so potentially explosive that I totally get why she’s taking extra precautions not to be overheard. “It’s somewhere really safe, right?”
I nod. Last year, in the course of trying to find out how Dan McAndrew had died, I came across a hidden stack of Polaroid photos of girls in—um, well, sexy poses. Not (blush) really horrible, hard-core stuff, but certainly not the kind of thing that anyone would want shown round. Or scanned and uploaded to Facebook.
Nadia was in there. Lucy, Callum’s ex-girlfriend. Sophia von und zu Whatsit.
And so was Plum.
I burned almost all the photos. But something told me to keep one of Plum. Just in case. Plum had been awful to me after Dan’s death, had practically driven me out of St. Tabby’s. I felt bad about it, because I knew that none of those girls would want anyone to see those photos but the person who’d taken them, but having some Plum insurance had seemed like a sensible precaution.
And I’d been right. To be honest, in all the mayhem that directly followed my finding that photo, I’d forgotten for a while that I had it. I’d shoved it in my back pocket, only coming across it again when I was stuffing my dirty clothes in the washing machine at Aunt Gwen’s; it was sheer chance that the Polaroid didn’t go through a spin cycle and get washed out to nothing. I put it in my desk drawer, burying it under a pile of boring old exercise books so that Aunt Gwen wouldn’t come across it.
Only a few weeks ag
o, I showed it to Taylor. And that was because Plum has found out something about Taylor’s brother that she’s been using to torment Taylor. Taylor’s family, it turns out, work for a secret U.S. agency. I’d say they were spies, but Taylor would whack me round the back of the head for using that word, so I won’t. Taylor’s brother, Seth, was on some kind of mission in Venice over New Year’s, pretending to be a superrich trust-fund boy with more money than sense, when Plum met him and unfortunately—because apparently he looks really like Taylor—knew immediately that he wasn’t who he said he was.
Plum has been using that knowledge to get at Taylor ever since. And it wasn’t till I flashed the photo in front of Plum and told her that if she didn’t play nicely with the other girls, it would find its way to all sorts of online sites, that she backed off.
(I may also have added that her tummy looked fat in the photo. And that there was some cellulite on her thighs. Neither of which is true, but there’s nothing more likely to make a girl take your threat seriously than if you say you have a photo of her looking like she has cottage-cheese legs. I may not have a lot of experience at girl-on-girl politics, but I’m learning.)
“It’s in the jewelry safe,” I say smugly. “Inside the box with my necklace.”
I inherited—sort of—a very valuable necklace from my mother. And once I found out how very valuable it is, I decided to keep it in the Wakefield jewelry safe, watched over by my grandmother’s secretary, Penny.
“That’s very smart,” Taylor says approvingly. “Even if Plum knew where it was, there’s no way she could ever get to that safe.”
“I know,” I say even more smugly as Taylor high-fives me.
“Girls!” Miss Carter says over the mike at the front of the coach, making us all jump. “We’re driving along Princes Street! On your right, you’ll see Edinburgh Castle, which we’ll visit in a couple of days, and the National Museum of Scotland.…”
Kiss of Death Page 3